II.

TEXTURE of mightiest splendor, force and art,
Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain,
The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain,
If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!
If those pure waves no added strength impart,
If thence the web no new attraction gain,
Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign
Her inspiration on the work to dart!

High intellect, magnific though thou be,

Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow

Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee

Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw ;

Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray;

And worthless shall thy splendour die away!

I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin:

The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich, may win.

To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er repaid To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid;

This is no question about gold that might be won

again,

If once they had me in their hold 'tis death they'd make my pain.

Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I lack;

The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back;

I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could spill,

But God, in all the devils' spite, can save me if he will.

There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed Mary's child,

And I can boldly pray to him; my soul is undefiled: The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues

undone.

God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned

upon!

If meeting a companion I shew my archerie,
My neighbour will be saying, "He's of some companie,
He goes to cage him in the wood, and worke his old

foleye,"

Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life for me.

But if I seem more cunning about the law than they, "Ha ha! some old conspirator well trained in tricks," they'll say ;

O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well

away:

Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I pray!

I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer, That I in peace may once again to mine own land repair: I never was a homicide-not with my will-I swear, Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did fare.

This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree;

There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers

free:

I wrote this skin, because within was much sore memory, And here I lay it by the way-that found my rhyme

may be.

SONNETS.

By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart.

I.

WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame,

And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise May issue the desponding sprite to raise : But weakly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame; Empty we deem the echo of a name :

Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays;

Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze;

Nor wreaths from groups of smiling air to claim! Thus strange is fate :-we meet the hollow cheer, When struck by age the cold insensate ear No more with trembling extasy can hear. But yet one thought a lasting joy can give That we, as not for self alone we live,

To others bore the boon, we would from them

receive!

II.

TEXTURE of mightiest splendor, force and art,
Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain,
The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain,
If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!
If those pure waves no added strength impart,
If thence the web no new attraction gain,
Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign
Her inspiration on the work to dart!

High intellect, magnific though thou be,

Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow

Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee

Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw;

Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray;

And worthless shall thy splendour die away!